TERMS OF PUBLICATION.
LLSRORTEB is published every Thursday Morn-
W v 0. GOODRICH, at $2 per annum, in ad
jxxg,
exceeding fifteen lines are
rted at TEN CENTS per line for first insertion,
" ' , IVE CENTS per line for subsequent insertions
4U . Ilo tices inserted before Marriages and
, W ill be charged FIFTEEN CENT, per line for
' >"insertion All resolutions of Associations;
fi ' r , iu icotions of. limited or individual interest,
1 V - ' dices of Marriages and Deaths exceeding five
ire charged TEN CENTS par line.
1 Year. 6 mo. 3 mo.
line Column, $75 S4O S3O
oae 40 25 15
A? u . Square 10 7i 5
■ TO". Caution, Lost and Found, and oth
' ,1 advertisements, not exceeding 15 lines,
o ur 'ee weeks, or less, $1 50
v .jciuistrator's and Executor's Notices.. .2 00
\ liter's Notices 2 50
1: dness Cards, five lines, (per year) 500
Merchants aud others, advertising their business
, I (,e charged S2O. They will be entitled to 1
routined exclusively to their business, with
srvilige of change.
' <rAdvertising in all cases exclusive of sub
fcnl,tiou to the paper.
. 3 PRINTING of every kind in Plain andFan
j, ,rs. done with neatness and dispatch. Hand-
Blanks, Cards, Pamphlets, Ac., of every va
fjtv and style, printed at the shortest notice. The
RFF-'ETEN OFFICE has just been re-fitted with Power
j) rcsM rs. and every thing in the Printing line can
l f rented in the most artistic manner and at the
,t rates. TERMS INVARIABLY CASH.
FOB THE REPORTER.
SALUE AND I.
LI I.VIL I'EMBEETON, JR.
Of six, we two are all that's left,
Sallie and I,
We've been of many friends bereft,
Sallie and I,
But ever since our childhood's day,
When we together used to play,
And watch the evening sun go 'way,
li s always been my pride to say—
" Sallie and I."
We were of a romantic cast,
Sallie and I,
And many a summer hour have passed—
Sallie and I
Down in the sylvan dim retreats
Where bees sang round the wild-flowers sweet
And wandering sheep made mellow bleats ;
Were always glad iu those green stieets—
Sallie and I.
1 recollect in lush youth's prime,
Sallie aud I
Went berrying in the berrying time ;
Sallie and I
Were not afraid of any ills,
We vaulted fences, leaped the rills,
Measured the dingles, brakes and hills,
And always weighed were at the mills
Sallie and I.
Dwelt in a red house on a hill—
Sallie and I
Lived on the songs the birds did trill,
Sallie and I;
There were morning-glories hanging o'er,
With dahlias and sun-flowers round the door,
My father planted them by the score—
We shall never see them any more,
Sallie and I.
Together while we were so gay,
Sallie and I,
We saw the years swift fly away,
Sallie and I ;
( >ne summer, sad to me the same,
A lover to my sister came,
And asked to make his own, her name,
A wife was soon, but still I claim,
" Sally and I."
I rundn, July 4, 18GB.
.M _ . .
DREAM-HAUNTED.
I HAD taken a lease of Gledhills of my
■ •end Mi. Lomond. The latter, before he
• v 'Ub! consider the business settled, insist
; upon my sleeping one night at Gledhills.
hhsou and his wife, who have charge of
e house, will find you a tolerable dinner,
and make you up a comfortable bed. I
will walk over iu the morning at ten and
we you ; and then, if you are still iu the
vuue mind that you are iu now, I will have
tin- agreement drawn up at once, and you
van enter upon your occupancy the follow
ing day.''
lhe autumu day was drawing to a close
when I found myself walking up the av
' iiue toward the old mansion at Gledhills.
in old man answered my summons at the
lie bowed respectfully at sight of
iv, and informed me that Mr. Lomond had
■ fit word that I was about to dine and
•■•-Tp at Gledhills, and that everything
■'•AS prepared for my reception. As 1
'js.sed the threshold the great door closed
; nd me with a dull, heavy crash, that
'•Luted through every corner of the house,
- : awoke a foreboding echo in my heart.
•D eded by my ancient guide, whom age
rheumatism had bent almost double, I
'SH'd the desolate-looking entrance-hall,
up the grand staircase, and so
"gh a pair of folding doors into the
-iwing-room, beyond which was a suit of
•mailer rooms, of which two had now been
apart for my service. How chill and
' '•rli-83 every thing looked in the cold
o'it ol the dying day ! Now that the
amour of sunshine rested no longer on
'J' 1 nee, my fancy refused to invest any
• those bare, desolate rooms with the
asant attributes of home ; and already,
v secret mind, I half repented my fa
•'" eagerness in being so willing to ac
"PL without further experience, this worm
't n old mansion, tenanted, doubtless, by
" ghosts of a hundred dead-and-gone
Ks . as a shelter for my household gods,
me for all that I held dear 011 earth.
iiie two rooms set aside for me I found
He comfortably furnished, in a neat but
a pensive style ; but when I understood
in the old man that ever since the death
the last tenant, three years before, they
id been furnished and set aside, ready for
reception of any chance visitors, like
••'-•If, who, either by their own wish or
•it "f Mr. Lomond, might decide to pass
1 night at Gledhills, and that three or four
w Mild-he occupants before me had so slept
■i re a night each, and had gone on their
vend ways next morning, never to be
"ii under that roof again, 1 began to
•i'k that there mighjt perhaps be some
<'g more in Mr. Lomond's stipulation
in was visible on the surface.
Having dined, and done ample justice to
Lomond's claret, and being possessed
. M 'iue measure by the demon of unrest,
k 1113- cigar and strolled along the cor
ri,K aad so came into the great
Qipty drawing-room, in which the moon
" "us were now pla\ r ing a ghostly game
ude-and-seek. It was uucarpeted and
-titute of furniture, and its oaken floor
Aed and groaned beneath my tread, as
"gh it were burdened with some dread
■•'Tret which it would fain reveal, but
not. Outside each of the three loug,
fit? V w " l^ows with which the room was
a'ted was a small balcony, below which
E. O. GOODRICH, Publisher.
VOLUME XXVII.
stretched a velvety expanse of lawn, set
here and there with a gay basket of flow
ers, the whole being shut iu by a clump of
sombre firs. I have said that the room was
destitute of furniture, but I found after a
time that it still contained one relic of its
more prosperous days, in the shape of a
lamily portrait, which still hung over the
mantle-piece, as it had hung for half a cen
tury or more. When I became aware of
this fact I fetched one of the caudles out
of my sitting-room, in order that I might
examine the picture more closely. It was
a full-length portrait of a man in the mili
tary costume that was in vogue toward the
end of last century. The face was very
handsome, with a proud, resolute beauty of
its own, that would have been very attrac
tive but for a vague, repellent something
—a hint of something tiger-like and cruel
lurking under the surface of that artificial
smile, which the artist had caught with
rare fidelity, and had fixed on the canvass
forever. It must have been something in
the better traits of the countenance that
taught me to see a likeness to Mr. Lomond;
and I could only conclude that the portrait
before me was that of some notable ances
tor of the present master of Gledhills.
The fatigues of the day and the solitude
to which I was condemned drove me to
bed at an early hour ; but there was some
thing about the novelty of my position
that precluded sleep for a long time after
I had put out my light, and I remember
heading some clock strike twelve while I
was still desperately wide awake, but that
is the last thing I do remember, and I sup
pose that I must have slid iff to sleep a
few minutes later, while still in the act of
asseverating to myself that to sleep there
was for me an impossibility. Whether I
had slept for hours or for minutes only,
when I woke up in the weird laud of dreams
is a point on which I can offer no opinion.
I awoke to that consciousness which is
possessed by dreamers, and which, in many
cases, is quite as vivid as the conscious
ness of real life ; but throughout the
strange, wild drama that followed I was
without any individuality of my own ; I
had all the consciousness of a spectator
without the responsibility of one. I was
nothing ; I had no existence in my own
dream ; I was merely the witness of cer
tain imaginary occurrences, which took
place without any reference to me, and
which I was powerless to prevent or influ
ence in the slightest degree.
Before me was the drawing-room at Gled
hills—l recognized it at once by the por
trait of the soldier over the fire-place. The
walls, painted of a delicate sea-green, were
hung with numerous pictures and engrav
ings j# rich frames A thick Aubusson
carpet covered the floor, and in the huge
fire-place a wood fire, that had nearly burn
ed itself down to was slowly expir
ing. The furniture was chintz-covered,
and curtains" of chintz draped the three
high narrow windows. Standing in one
corner, between the quaintly-carved legs
of a mahogany chiffonier, was a tall Man
darin jar, with an open-work lid, from
which was exhaled a faint indescribable
perfume, as of the bruised sweetness of a
hundred flowers ; in the opposite corner
stood a harp ; books richly bound were
scattered about the room, which was light
ed by a number of wax-candles fixed in
lustres over the mantel-piece.
Seated at a little fancy-table was a girl,
eighteen or twenty 3'eurs old, making-be
lieve to be busj' with her embroidery, but
with a mind evidently preoccupied by some
more important subject. She had on a
short-waisted white dress, after the fashion
of those days, from which her long narrow
skirts fell away in sedate folds, utterly
guiltless.of all modern modes of extension
of circumference. Her face was beautiful,
aud she had the air of a person quite con
scious of that fact ; but underlying this
charm of regular features there was some
thing resolute and proud, that carried the
mind back, as by an instinct, to the por
trait over the fire-place. She had loosened
the thick masses of her chestnut hair, and
they now fell low down over her shoulders,
confined only by a narrow baud of blue
velvet. Round her neck was a thin chain
of gold, from which hung a locket, which
she drew every now and then from the bo
som of her dress, and pressed with fever
ish eagerness to her lips. The same impa
tience was visible in the way in which she
would put a few quick stitches into her em
broidery, and then pause, with the needle
in her fingers, to listen intently, and so
lapse into a dreamy, absent mood, out of
which she would wake up in a minute or
two with a start, and begin to ply her
needle again as restlessly as before.
That something for which she was so im
patiently waiting came at last—a low,
clear, peculiar whistle, heard by me so dis
tinctly through the midst of my dream, aud
remembered so well when I awoke that I
could afterward reproduce it exactly. The
young lady started to her feet the moment
the signal fell on her ear. Her eyes flash
ed with a newer radiance : her soft lips
pouted into a smile ; while from her bosom
upward a lovely flush spread swiftly, as
though Eros had touched her that instant
with his torch, and already the celestial
flame were coursing through her veins. A
brief minute she stood thus, like a lovely
statue of Expectancy ; then she hurried to
one of the windows, and drawing aside the
long chintz curtain, she placed a lighted
candle close to the window as an answer
ing signal. Then, having withdrawn the
candle and replaced the curtain, so that the
window from the outside would seem quite
dark again, she left the room, to return
presently with a ladder of thin rope, to
which were affixed two hooks of steel.—
| Her next proceeding was to lock the three
! doors which opened into the drawing-room,
| and having thus secured herself from in
| trtision, she passed oat of sight behind one
! of the curtains ; and then I heard the faint
sound of a window being cautiously lifted,
and I knew, as well as though the whole
scene was visible to me, that she was fix
ing the rope-ladder to the balcony by means
of its hooks, and that presently her lover
would be with her.
And so it fell out. A little while, and
the curtain was lifted ; the lady came back
into the room ; and following close upon
her steps came a tall stranger, dark aud
handsome, like a true hero of romance.
" My darling Lenore !"
" My dearest V arrel 1"
He took her in his arms, and stooped,
and kissed her fondly ; and then he drew
her to the light, aud gazed down into her
eyes, in which nothing but love for him
was then visible, and then he stooped again
and kissed her not less tenderly than be
fore. His roquelaure and hat had fallen to
the ground, and he now stood revealed a
man if fashion of the period. As before
stated, he was eminently good-looking,
with languishing black eyes, and a pensive
smile such as one usually endows Romeo
with in imagination. He wore his hair
without parting of any kind, in a profusion
of short, black, glossy curls, in which there
was no trace of the elaboration of art, and
he was clean-shaven, except for a short
whisker that terminated half-way down his
| cheek. He wore a blue coat with gilt but
tons, swallow-tailed, short in the waist,
and high-collared. His waistcoat was
bright yellow us to color, cross d with a
small black stripe ; a huge seal depended
from the fob of his black small-clothes ;
and the Hessian boots in which his lower
extremities were encased were polished to
a marvelous degree of brilliancy. His
cravat, white and unstarched, and tied with
a large bow, was made of hue, soft muslin;
and the frilled bosom of his shirt had been
carefully crimped by conscientious feminine
fingers. In this frill he wore a small clus
ter of brilliants ; while a large signet
ring, a genuine antique, decorated the first
finger of his right hand.
Such was the appearance of Sir Derwent
Varrel; and absurd as a costume like his
would now seem on the classic fhrgs of
Bond Street or St. James's, it yet became
the baronet admirably, while he iu return
lent it a grace and distinction which made
it seem the only attire proper for a gentle
man.
" Why did you not come last night ?"
said Lenore. " Hour after hour I waited
for you in vain."
" 'Twas not my fault, dearest, that I did
not ; of that rest well assured," answered
Varrel. " Business that brooked not de- '
lay kept me from your side. 1 was hugely
chagrined."
" That weary, weary business 1" sighed
Lenore. " 'Tis ever men's excuse. But !
now that you are here, I will not be inel- i
ancholy. Ah, that I could be forever by
your side !"
She nestled her head shyly on his bosom i
He stroked her chestnut hair softly with i
his white hand, and looked down 011 her I
with a crafty and sinister smile—such a
smile as might light up the face of a fowl- i
er when he see the fluttering innocent j
which he has been doing his best to entice !
begin to turn longingly toward the snare. |
" Little simpleton !" he replied, pulling |
her ear. " You speak as if what you long j
for were impossible of attainment : where- I
as one word from you would make it a bliss
ful certainty, and render two loving hearts
happy forever."
" I can not, Varrel—l cannot say that J
word. Ah, why does my father dislike you
so much ?"
"My faith ! how should I know ? But i
not the word, little one. You should ask,
why does he hate me so intensely ? There
are those who gladly calumniate me, and
for such he has ever a ready ear ; for I am j
unfortunate enough to have many enemies, |
and doubtless twice as many faults."
" No, no, I will not hear such language,'
exclaimed Lenore. "In time my father
will relent, and then—"
" Never, girl !" said Varrel, fiercely.—
" Colonel Lomond is not made of melting
stuff. His hatred of me he will carry with
him to the grave. Never look for change
in him. Sweet one," he added, changing
his tone in a moment to one of low-breath
ing, imploring tenderness—" sweet one, as
I have told thee before, both thy fate and
mine are dependent on a single word from
those rosy lips. Be mine, in spite of every
one ! lam rich and can supply thy every
want. We will go abroad ; and in some
lovely Italian valley, or fair isle of the
eastern seas, we will forget our by-goue
troubles, and watch the happy days glide
softly past, while rounding our lives to
that perfect love which alone can bring
back Eden to this weary earth. Oh, Lo
nore, dearest and best-loved, flee with me
at once and forever !"
She was standing by the little table,
smiling, trembling, and yet with tears half
starting from her lids, while he kneeling on
one knee, was covering her hand with pas
sionate kisses.
" Oh, Varrel, you try me almost beyond
my strength j" she murmared. " But I
can not, I dare not do as you wish. You
know not my father as well as I do. He
would seek me out and kill me—and you
too, and you too, Derwent ! wherever we
might be. His vengeance would be terri
ble and pitiless."
" Timid little puss !" he said, half scorn
fully, as he rose and encircled her waist
with his arm. "Am I not competent to
protect thee against the world ? Fear
noth ''4- For this house of bondage, for
this stagnation of heart and soul, 1 will
give thee life and light aud love. Thou
shalt exchange this—"
" Hush !" exclaimed Lenore, suddenly,
with a smothered shriek. " I hear my fath
er's footfall on the stairs. To the window,
Varrel, or you are lost !"
One hasty kiss, and then Varrel dashed
aside the chintz curtain, and sprang to the
window, only to fall back next moment in
to the room like a man stricken in the dark
" A thousand devils ! I have been betray
ed !" he exclaimed. " The rope-ladder is
gone, and I see the figures of men moving
about the lawn. Lenore, you must hide
me 1"
" Too late—too late I" she sobbed.
They both stood for a moment as though
changed to stone, while the footsteps came
with a heavy tramp along the echoing cor
ridor, aud halted outside the door. The
eyes of Lenore and Varrel turned instinc
tively to the door-handle, and they saw it
move as it was tried from the other side,
but the door was still locked.
" Open, Lenore—it is I !" said a stern
voice from without; aud the summons was
emphasized by a heavy blow on the panel
of the door.
" Oh, Varrel, I dare not disobey 1" said
Lenore, in an agonized whisper. " Hide
yourself behind the curtains ; perhaps he
may not of your presence here ; and
when he shall have gone to his own room
we must plan your escape. Hush ! not a
word. Hide ! bide !"
" Why this foolery of locked doors ?" said
he who now came in. "Amlto be barred
out of my own rooms by a child like you ?'
" The night was so dark, and—and I felt
so lonely, and—and—"
REGARDLESS OF DENUNCIATION FROM ANY QUARTER.
TOWANDA, BRADFORD COUNTY, PA., JULY 10, 1866.
" And- -and 3*oll did not expect your fath
er back so soon ?" he said, mimicking her
tone with a sneer. " Is it not so, 3*oll white
faced jade ?"
" Indeed, papa, I—" pleaded the trem
bling Lenore.
" llon't prevaricate, girl !" he said, with
a savage stamp of' the foot. " Come, now,
you will tell me next that you have had 110
visitors—eh ?"
" Indeed, 110, papa," said Lenore, with
painful cageruess.
" Been quite alone ever since I left home
j this afternoon ?"
"Quite aloue, papa."
A faint dash of color was coming hack
into her cheeks Il3' this time ; she began,
perhaps, to hope that after all this ques
tioning his suspicions would be allayed,
and he would go to his own room. If such
were the cast; his next words must have
undeceived her terribl3 r .
" Y'ou lie, girl—you lie !" he said, in a
voice whose sternness was not without a
tremble in it ; and as he spoke he touched
Varrel's hat contemptuously with his foot
which up to that moment had lain unheed
ed 011 the floor. Oh, that child of mine
should ever live to deceive me thus !" His
clasped hands and upturned face seemed
to appeal to Heaven against the falsehood
that had just been told him : but uext in
stant the look of anguish died from off his
face, and his features settled back into
more than their former harshness as he
strode across the floor and flung back the
curtain, behind whose folds Varrel was
concealed. " Behold the proof !" he cried.
" Behold the damning proof ! Oh, Lenore !'
For a moment the two men stood eying
each other in silence. Lenore, with a piti
ful cry, fell at her father's feet, but he heed
ed her 110 more than if she had been a stone.
In the father of Lenore I beheld the orig
inal of the picture over the drawing-room
mantle-piece ; 01113- he seemed older and
more grizzled, and his features more deep-
I 3' marked with the carving of Time's chisel
than in his portrait. He had on a sort of
military undress suit, with a pair of heavy
riding-boots and spurs, and a short heav3 r
whip in his haifd.
" This, Sir Derwent Vcrrel, is an unex
pected honor," said Colonel Lomond, in a
tone of unconcealed irony, as he made the
baronet a sweeping and ceremonious bow.
" Pray—pray let me beg of 3 t OU to emerge
from an obscurity so uncongenial to one of
3 T our enterprising disposition. That is bet
ter, Lenore, child ; let us have a little more
light on the scene—it is a pleasure to look
011 the face of an honest man--and we may,
perchance, need it all before we have done.
More light, girl, do .3'ou hear ! And now,
perhaps, Sir Derwent Varrel will favor us
with some explanation—an 3', the most sim
ple, will, of course, do for me—of how lie
came to he hidden, like a common thief, be
hind the curtains of m 3' drawing-room "
Varrel's pule olive cheek flushed decpl3' ;
at this little speech, and a dangerous light
began to glitter in his eyes as he stepped
out of his hiding-place, and advanced into
the room.
" Colonel Lomond shall have an explana
tion as simple as lie desires," he said. Then
he stopped to refresh his nerves witli a
pinch of snuff.
" Y'ou are aware, Sir," he resumed, "that
1 love your daughter ; that several months
ago 1 would fain have made her ni3' wife ; j
aud that your consent alone was wanting j
to such a union."
" Precisely so," said Colonel Lomond in i
the iciest of tones, as he balanced the
handle of his riding-whip between his
thumb and finger.
" You might prevent our marriage, Sir,
hut 3'ou could not keep us from loving one
another," said Sir Derwent, proudly.
" In other words, my daughter had still
sufficient respect left for me to refuse to
wed 3*ou without 013* consent ; butyou had j
not sufficient respect for her to refrain from j
using your influence over her weak girl's i
will to induce her to deceive her father, j
and consent to nocturnal assignations with
a, libertine like yourself. Love ! The word i
is sullied iu coming from sucli lips as 3'ours. j
You aud I, Sir Derwent Varrel, had high j
words together six months ago, and I told j
you then that I would rather see my daugh- j
ter lying in her coflin than wedded to such j
a one as you ; and those words I repeat!
again to-night. Come hither, girl," he ad- i
ded, seizing Lenore roughty by the wrist,
" come hither, and choose at once and for
ever between me anil this man, who has
taught thee to lie to thy father. What do
I say ? Nay, there cau be uo choice be
tween such as this man and me. I tell
thee, girl, that tfjy ignorance can not fath
om the depths of such iniquity as his. A
gambler so deepl3' tainted that in 110 socie
t> r of gentlemen is he allowed to pla3 r ; a
libertine so vile, that to couple a woman's
name with his is a passport to dishonor ; a
sharper and blackleg, who has been twice
hooted off the Newmarket course ; a bank
rupt so involved that onl3* by
a wealthy marriage—with such a one, for
example, as the heiress of Gledhills-acau
he hope even partially to retrieve his for
tunes. Bah ! what can thy country-bred
ignorance know of these things ?"
" Hard words, Colonel Lomond, very hard
words," said Sir Derwent,
" but, I am happy to think, utterly incapa
ble of proof."
" Hard words ! ay, hard euough to have
moved an innocent man to righteous anger,
but not, as it seems, to flutter thy slow
beating pulses ever so
because thou knowest them to be true.—
Here's one out of a dozen. Who lured
sweet Mary Doris from her home in ynnder
valley, and her away in London past the
finding of her friends ? Who held the sim
ple village beaut 3' lightly for a month or
two, and then discarded her to starve or
die as she might think best ? Who but you,
Sir Derwent Vearel, unless this letter also
lies—a letter signed with 3'our name, aud
found in the poor child's pocket when she
la3 r with white staring face and dripping
hair in the dead-house by the river. And
now it is my daughter thou seekest to en
trap !"
As Colonel Lomond drew from his pocket
the letter of which he had been speaking,
Lenore, with a low cry of anguish, sank
fainting to the floor ; and the horror-strick
en Varrel reeled backward like one suddeu
ly stabbed.
" Reptile ! it is time the score between
us were settled," said Colonel Lomond, with
a venomous ferocity of tone. " Only one
of us two must leave this room alive."
" I can not—l dare not fight with you,"
murmured Varrel.
" Oh ho ! do not think to escape me thus.
You refuse to fight. Then take the punish
ment of cowards." And with that the
heavy thong ol Colonel Lomond's riding
whip whistled through the air, and came
down on Varrel's neck and shoulders twice,
twisting round his face on the second occa
sion, and leaving a thin livid wale across
his cheek where it had cut into the flesh.—
Varrel's first impulse was to shrink hack
ward with a mingled cry of rage and pain;
but the next instant he closed with the Col
onel, and wresting the whip from his hands,
flung it to the other end of the room.
" Give me a sword—a pistol—a weapon
of any kind 1" he cried, hoarsely. " This
vile treatment absolves me from all conse
quences Colonel Lomond, your blood be
upon your own head !"
The Colonel smiled sweetly on him.—
" Well spoken," he said, " onty that you
express yourself somewhat after the Furi
oso fashion. Your cry to arms is worth of
all praise, and I hasten to comply with it.
In this cabinet, Sir, are a couple of as pret
ty pla3'thing6 as ever gladdened the eyes
of a gentleman. Voila ! they are both alike
in every particular. The choice is yours."
Varrel's fingers closed over the hilt of
one of the rapiers thus presented to him ;
and while he tried its edge and temper, by
running his finger and thumb appreciative
ly along its length, and by bending its
point hack nearly to the hilt, Colonel Lo
mond disembarrassed himself of the cum
brous over-coat in which he was enveloped;
aud the next minute the two men fronted
each other.
" Gardez-vous, Monsieur !" cried Colonel
Lomond as he made the first pass.
It was thoroughly understood by both of
them that they were fighting for dear life
—that neither of them must look for mercy
from the other. Both of them were excel
lent swordsmen, hut Sir Derwent had the
advantages of youth and ag-ility on his
side, and he pressed the Colonel hardty,
who, while keeping up his defense warily,
yet felt himself compelled to retreat step
by step before the desperate lunges of his
antagonist.
The clash of the swords seemed to rouse
Lenore from the stupor into which she had
fallen. With her hands pressed to her
temples, and with glaring eyeballs, that
followed every movement of the comba
tants, she staggered to her feet. Her lips
moved, but no sound came from them.
Perhaps she was asking herself whether
it were not all a hideous nightmare, which
the first breath of reality would dissipate
forever. With the same mingled look of
horror and unbelief on her face she watched
the two men coming slowly down the room
again, for Colonel Lomond was still slight
ly overborne by his more youthful antago
nist. The rapiers clashed together ; bright
sparks Hew from their polished blue-black
surface, as they struck each other, and
bent and quivered like things of life in the
grasp of the sinewy hands that held them.
The combatants were just opposite the
spot where the half-demented Lenore was
standing like one incapable of motion,
when suddenly, at a movement in tierce,
the point of Colonel Lomond's rapier snap
ped off; an advantage which Varrel in
stantly followed up with a dexterous stroke,
which sent the Colouol's broken weapon
flying across the room. Lenore, with the
quick instinct of love, divined her father's
danger ; and the same moment that the ra
pier was twisted out of his hand she sprang
forward with a wild inarticulate cry to
shield him with her bod - from what she
knew must follow, and the sword of Varrel,
aimed at her father's heart with all the
strength which hate and the desire of ven
geauce could lend to such a thrust, passed
instead |through the body of the hapless
girl. Her father's arms caught her as she
was falling. "Papa—kiss—forgive," she
murmured in his ear ; then a stream of
blood burst from her lips, she shuddered
and was dead.
Colonel Lomond pressed his quivering
lips tenderl3 T on her forehead ; then lifting
her in his arms, he carried her to a couch.
"Lie there for a little while, sweet, foolish
darling," he said. " Perhaps I may join
thee on thy journey before long."
Varrel, who was like a man half-crazed,
would have rung for help,but Colonel Lo
mond, a gesture, forbade him to do so.
" You and I, Sir," said the Colonel, "have
still our little business to arrange."
" Great Heaven ! what would you more ?"
exclaimed Sir Derwent.
" Revenge my daughter's death !" said
Lomond.
" Her death was a pure accident."
" Granted. She died to save my life,
anil that life I now devote to avenging her
memory. What I said before I say again
—only one of us two shall quit this room
alive. Here are two pistols : one of them
is loaded, the other is unloaded. Choose
one of them. In three minutes that clock
on the chimney-picce will strike the hour.
At the first stroke we will fire across this
table ; and may Heaven have mercy on
the soul of one of us !"
" It would be murder 1" said Varrel, in a
low voice, whil ■ a cold sweat broke out on
his ashen face.
"Callitb3 r what name you will," said
Lomond ; " but as I h.ve said, so it shall
be. Dare to refuse, and by the great Fiend
of Darkness, whose true son you are, I will
thrash you with yonder whip within
an inch of your life, and send you forth in
to the world branded forever as a coward
and a rogue !"
Sir Derwent wiped the prespiration off
his forehead with his lace-bordered hand
; kerchief, and his dry lips moved in faint
i protest. His courage was beginning to
• waver. The slow, patient ferocity of his
| enemy was not without its effect upon him.
" Choose 1" said Colonel Lomond, as he
laid a brace of pistols on the table. Varrel
hesitated for an instant which to pick, aud
Lomond smiled, grimly. No fresh arrange
ment of position was necessiuy, the 3' being
on opposite sides of the table, on
which poor Lenore's embroidery was still
lying, as she had cast it aside in the first
flutter of hearing her lover's signal.
" Colonel Lomond, I must make a last
protest agaiut the blood - business," said
j Varrel.
Again the Colonel smiled. "Iu ten sec
onds," he said, "the clock will strike. Be
ready."
There was a great contrast betwen the
two men as they stood thus, fronting what
for one of them must be inevitable death.
#3 per Annum, in Advance.
Colonel Lomond's bronzed cheek looked
even darker than usual, and his eyes seem
ed to burn with intense hate as he stood
gazing at his antagonist from under his
lowering brows ; but his extended arm
was firm as a bar of steel. Varrel was ev
idently nervous. Ilis lips had faded to a
dull bluish white ; he pressed one'hand to
his chest occasionally, as if to still the
throbbing of the heart beneath ; while the
other, which held the pistol, trembled
slightly in spite of him.
Four seconds—three seconds—two sec
onds. The deathly brooding stillness that
pervaded the room was something awful.
One second. The silvery bell of the little
French clock had not completed its first
stroke before the two triggers were pulled.
A flash, a report, aud gush ,of smoke from
one of the weapons, and Sir Derwent Var
rel, shot through the heart, fell back dead.
"So perishes a thorough scoundrel!"
said Colonel Lomond as he gazed into the
face of his dead enemy.
Suddenly a door opened, and showed a
very old lady, with white hair, and clad in
a white dressing-robe, standing in the en
trance. From the movements of her hands
you understood at once that she was blind,
or nearly so.
" Henry ! Henry ! where are you ?" she j
cried. "Some one fired a pistol just now.
Oh, tell me that you are not hurt !" and she
advanced a step or two into the room.
A spasm of anguish passed over the face
of Colonel Lomond. "I am here and well,
mother," he said. "Pray, return to your
0u n room. lam sorry to have disturbed
you."
"And Lenore," said the old lady, plain
tively, "why has not Lenore been to kiss [
me, and say goodnight ? Has the child
gone to bed ?"
" Lenore is asleep, mother," said the
Colonel, in a whisper. "We must not dis-1
turb her. She shall come to you in the
morning."
" Strange—strange," murmured the old
lady ; "she never forgot me before and
with that she turned and went slowly
away, groping with her hands before her : j
anp the Colonel, falling on his knees, bur- j
ied his face in the white dress of his dead j
daughter. At which point the whole ma
chinery of my dream dissolved away, and
1 awoke.
There was 110 more sleep for me that
night. So lifelike and vivid was my ex
traordinary dream, so much did it seem
like a part of my own personal experience,
that the eflect left by it on my mind was
not lightly to be shaked off. Lenore's wild
cry as she flung herself into her father's j
arms, the voices of Varrel and Lomond in
angry dispute, seemed still to echo in my
brain ; and 1 felt that every miuute inci
dent of that terrible tragedy must hence-1
forth be, as it were, a part of my own life. I
Impelled by some vague feeling wliick I
could not resist, I quitted my bedroom, |
and wandered, half-dressed, into the great ;
desolate drawing-room, the scenej of all j
the strange incidents of my dream. The i
ghostly splendor of the moonlight filled it ,
no longer; it was as cold, dark, and silent, j
as some vast tomb. As I stood in the |
doorway, longing, and yet afraid to enter,
a gust of ni..ht-wiud sweeping up the val
ley rattled the windows of the old mansion; I
and what seemed like a low, responsive j
sigh, came to me out of the gloom, a sigh i
so unutterably sad, that, with a shudder, I 1
stepped backward and shut the door.
I was very glad when ten o'clock came,
and brought Mr. Lomond, punctual to the
minute. "It is only what 1 expected," he
said, when I had given him an outline of
my singular dream ; "and I may now tell
you, Sir, that precisely the same dream
which impressed you so strongly last night 1
is dreamed by every one, no matter w T ho !
they may be, the first time they sleep at
Gledhills, and never afterward ; and this
Curse—for I may truly call it by that name j
-—has hung over the house from the night
on which the tragedy, which you witnessed
only in imagination, was worked out in all j
its dismal realitj' within these walls. You
will now understand why I requested you ,
to sleep one night at Gledhills before final-'
ly deciding that you would take the house;
and it remains for you to consider whether j
you wife, whose health you say is delicate, j
could undergo such an ordeal as she would
assuredly have to pass through the first j
night of her sojourn under this roof."
1 decided that she could not endure the 1
trial, and gave up Gledhills.
THE BF.6T RECOMMENDATION.— A youth
seeking employment came to New York
city, and on inquiring at a certain count
ing-room if they wished a clerk, was told
they did not. On mentioning the recom
mendations that he had, one of which was
from a highly respected citizen, the mer
chant desired to see them. In turning
over his carpet-bag to find his letters, a
book rolled out on the floor.
" What book is that ?" said the mer
chant.
" It is the Bible, sir," was the reply.
" And what are you going to do with j
that book in New York ?"
The lad looked seriously into the mer- j
chant's face, and replied, " I promised my i
mother I would read it every day, and I
shall do it."
The merchant immediately engaged his j
services, and in due time he became a part- ;
ner iu the firm—one of the most respecta- !
ble in the city.
m
There must be something (says Pr. |
Livingstone) in the appearance of white
men frightfully repulsive to the unsophis
ticated natives of Africa : for on entering
villages previously unvisited by Europeans j
if we met a child coming quietly and un- j
suspectingly toward us, the moment he !
raised his eyes and saw the men in ' bags,' j
he would take to his heels in an agony of
terror, such as we might feel if we met a
live Egyptian mummy at the door of the
British Museum. Alarmed by the child's
wild out-cries, the mother rushes out of her
hut,but darts back again at the first glimpse
of the same fearful apparition. Dogs turn
tail, and scour (off in dismay ; hens aban
don their chickeus aud fly screaming to the
tops of the houses. The so late peaceful
village becomes a scene of confusion and
hubbub until calmed by the laughing as
surance of our men that white people do not
eat black folks ; a joke having oftentimes
greater effect in Africa than assertions.
Some of our young swells, on entering an
African village, might expect a collapse of
self-inflation, at the sight of all the pretty
girls fleeing from them as from hideous can
nibals, or by witnessing, as we have done,
the conversion of themselves into public
hobgoblins, the maininas holding naughty
children away from them, and sayiug, " Be
good, or I shall call the white man to bite
you."
TAKEN AT IIIS WORD. —A few years ago,
says the Schenectady Sun, when it was
the custom of large girls and larger boys
to attend district schools, an incident took
place in a neighboring town which is worth
recording. One of the fairest and plump
est girls oi the school happeued to violate
one of the teacher's rules. The master, a
prompt, energetic fellow of twenty-five,
summoned her into the middle of the floor.
After interrogating the girl for a few mo
ments, he thundered out:—"Will you give
me your hand ?" "Yes, sir ; and my heart,
too," promptly responded the girl, at tlie
same time Btretching forth her nand to the
master, and eying hirn with a cunning look
A death-like silence reigned for a moment
in the school ; a tear was seen to glisten
in the master's eye ; the ruler was laid up
on the desk, and the blushing girl was re
quested to take her seat, but to remain af
ter the school was dismissed. In three
weeks after the school was finished, the
teacher and girl were married.
A REMINISCENCE. —In the month of Feb
ruary, 1861, says the Johnstown Tribune,
when the mutterings of the coming civil
strife were borne to the North upon every
Southern breeze, and two months before
the bursting of the war cloud at Sumptcr,
the writer of this met John W. Geary,
then a farmer of Westmoreland county, at
Ebeusburg, and had the pleasure of spend
ing an evening in his room. In the course
of a long conversation the approaching
war was mentioned. We shall never for
get the earnestness with which Colonei
Geary, then a Douglas Democrat, spoke ol
that most anxious and exciting subject,
jHe said that Abraham Lincoln had been
fairly elected to the highest office in the
gift of the people ; that the South had no
cause for attempting to dissolve the Union;
and that, if all efforts at conciliation should
fail, he would take his boy and enter the
military service of his country, in defence
of the Union, the Constitution and laws.
How well he kept his word all his country
men know. His brave boy fell in the
j Southwest, pierced by a rebel bullet, ami
t John W. Geary himself bears upon his per
son to-day the scars of a severe wound re
ceived on one of the hardest fought battle
fields of Virginia. How much his example
aided in rallying the Democratic party ol
1801 around the old flag needs not to be
told. The country can never honor too
J much those prominent leaders of the old
Democratic party —the Butlers, the Logans,
the Gearys—who, iu the darkest hour ol
our country's history, threw the weight of
their example and their influence into the
scale iu behalf of the noblest cause that
ever enlisted the hearts and valor of men.
A GENTLEMAN, once upon a time, entered
a small shop in which vegetables were
kept for sale, and inquired of the proprie
tor if he had any onions. " Onions, onions,"
repeated the puzzled vegetable dealer, " on
ions !—no, sir, 1 believe not !" After the
gentleman had left, the perplexed vegeta
ble man scratched his head for a moment,
and then, as if struck with a sudden solu
tion of the mystery, he exclaimed—" Won
der if the darned ignorant fool didn't mean
ingions ?"
FUN, FACTS AND FAOETLE,
THE lawyer's motto—be brief. The doc
tor's motto —be patient. The potter's—be ware
The type-setter's—be composed.
AN English paper observes : "If some of
the speeches of our statesmen do not reach down
to posterity it will not he because they are not
long enough." The same remark is applicable
here.
A Portland steamer was found to be go
ing astray, on a recent trip from Boston, owing to
deviations of her compass. The deviation, it was
also found, was caused by the steel hoop skirt of
a young lady who wa; in the pilot house, and on
her retiring the compass resumed its proper posi
tion.
WHEN the brave Corporal Uathines was
asked, after the battle of Waterloo, if he was not
afraid, he replied, "Afraid! why I was in a'the
battles of the Peninsula !" And having it explain
ed that the question related to a fear of losing the
day ; "Na, na ; 1 did na fear that. I was only
afraid we should be a' killed before we had time to
win it."
A story is told of the revenge taken by a
Nantucket ship-master against a United .States
Consul, who was very rarely found in his office,
although upon his sign were these words, "In
from ten to one." the indignant captain, after try
ing to find the consul several days without suc
cess, took a paint brush and altered the official's
sign, so that it read, 'Ten to one that he is not in.'
A VERY volatile young lord, whose faults
were numberless, at last married. "Now, my
lord, said his wife, " I hope you'll mend." "Mad
am," said he, "this is my last folly."
"1 tliiuk I have seen you before, sir,—
are you not Owen Smith?" "Oh, yes : I am owin'
•Jones, and owin. Brown, and owin' everybody.'
WHAT does a telegraph operator do when
he receives the heads oi important news ? Waits for
de tails of course.
"Ah, Mr. Simpkins, we have not chairs
enough for company," said a gay wife to her fru
gal husband. "Plenty of chairs, my dear, but a
little too much company," said he.
"WHICH, my dear lady, do you think the
merriest place in the world ?"
"That immediately- above the atmosphere that
surrounds the earth, I should think. "
' 'And why so ?"
"Because I am told that there all bodies lose
their gravity.
THE following definition of the rights of
women, is given in a Vermont paper : "To love
her lord with all her heart, and her baby as her
self—and to make good bread
A Western paper strikes the name of two
subscribers from its list because they were recently
hung. The publisher says he was compelled to
be severe, because he did not know their present
address.
A countryman who was charged with
ten gallons of whisky, which a grocer put iu a tight
gallon keg. said he "didn't mind the money over
charged, so much as he did the strain on the keg."
JUDY Bralegau, having been requested to
open some oysters, after knocking them about for
some time, exclaimed : "Upon my conscience, tut
they are mighty peel!"
"IF I want a statute of myself,why should
I be so foolish to present a sculptor with the mar
ble for the work V Because if 1 did, he would be
sure to ehizel me out of it'"
A subscriber writes to a western editor :
"I don't want your paper any longer." To which
the editor replies : "I would not make it any lon
j ger if you did : its present length suits me very
well."
A French writer, in describing the tra
ding powers of the genuine Yankee, said r "If he
was cast away on a desolate island, he'd get up the
next morning and go around selling maps to the
inhabitants."
AN ingenious housekeepor that we have
heard of, used to sweep her chimney by letting a
rope down, which was fastened round the legs ot
a goose, and then pulling the goose after it.
A fashionable but ignorant lady,desirous
of purchasing a watch, was shown a very beautiful
one, the shopkeeper remarked that it went thirty
six hours, ''What, iu one day ?" she asked.
NUMBER 8.